The Paris Children : A Novel (2020)

by Goldreich, Gloria

  She handed it to Madeleine, who read the single marked paragraph aloud.

  “‘Charity is not sufficient. What is needed above all is openness of heart, material deeds.’”

  Her voice broke and tears streaked her cheeks. Her grandfather’s mandate was her legacy.

  “And that is exactly why Madeleine and I will be social workers,” Simone said, turning to Lucie. “We believe, as he did, in material deeds. When we were small girls, we went with you and Maman to the Pletzl, that old Jewish quarter of the Marais, and distributed food and clothing to the poor Jewish refugees from Eastern Europe. Charitable action. Material deeds.”

  Lucie smiled sadly.

  “And now we go to the Marais and Belleville to help Jewish families who are fleeing Germany. These are new and even more dangerous times, and our help is desperately needed,” she said.

  Madeleine turned to her uncle.

  “You see, Uncle Pierre, there is so much we have to do for our people here in France. They need our assistance, our protection.”

  Simone nodded vigorously.

  Pierre Dreyfus looked at his young nieces, moved by their beauty and their courage. He was proud of them, and he feared for them. He chose his words carefully, unwilling to reignite his sister’s resentment or his mother’s sorrow, but he would not disavow his intent.

  “We must each follow the dictates of our own hearts, our own consciences, Madeleine. My family and I must choose our destinies, and you must choose your own. Let us wish each other bonne chance, good luck, good fortune. We will all need a great deal of luck in the dark times that will soon be upon us.”

  A frozen silence followed his ominous words. It was his wife who turned their mood from solemnity to gaiety.

  “But we have much to look forward to. Simone, how do your wedding plans progress? And where is your handsome Anatol?”

  “He is at an important meeting of scout leaders, but I hope he will be here in time for dessert,” Simone replied, blushing as she always did when she spoke of Anatol.

  “I certainly hope so. I made my apfel strudel because I know it is his favorite,” Lucie said. She touched Pierre’s cheek lightly. Her son was chasing shadows that might never fall. Germany would not dare to threaten France.

  There was a knock at the door, and Simone hurried to open it. Anatol and Claude entered, their faces ruddied by the evening breeze, the blue-and-white scarves of the Jewish Scouts loosely knotted around their necks. Anatol carried a white rose, which he handed to Simone.

  Her family clapped as she smiled and tucked it behind her ear. Etienne slipped out of the chair beside Madeleine and nodded to Claude, who grinned and took his place.

  Dr. Pierre Paul Levy pressed his wife’s hand to his lips.

  “Our girls are very beautiful,” he whispered.

  Jeanne nodded. “So beautiful and so young.”

  He discerned the sadness and fear in her voice. “Everything will be all right,” he said softly. “We are in Paris, the city of love, the City of Light.”

  “Darkness has been known to fall on light,” she replied, but she lifted her glass as Pierre Dreyfus proposed a toast to his father, whose memory they had assembled to honor, and to the République they all loved so well.

  “À la France. À la famille Dreyfus.” Their voices were strong, their eyes dangerously bright, fear and hope comingling.

  Later that night, Claude and Madeleine walked through the silent streets. Claude spoke of an important meeting of the Jewish Scouts. “There are many leaders who think we should join the tzofim, the scouts in Palestine,” he said.

  “And what do you think?” Madeleine asked.

  He did not answer but remained silent even as a group of students singing “La Marseillaise” passed. Madeleine added her voice to theirs.

  “And my uncle Pierre wants us to emigrate to America,” Madeleine countered, her voice soft. “Ah, Claude,” she said, “how can we abandon our France?”

  “We must pray that France will not abandon us,” he replied, and with those words, she remembered the raucous voices in the theater and how she and Simone had fled that unexpected chorus of hatred. She shivered.

  “You are cold,” Claude said, and tenderly, he draped his blue-and-white scarf over her shoulders.

  Winter

  Two

  Madame Danier, the dean of the Institute of Social Work, glanced down at the folder on her desk and smiled at the dark-haired young woman who stood before her.

  “Good morning, Mademoiselle Levy. Please sit down.”

  “Thank you,” Madeleine said, grateful that the dean spoke loudly and clearly. She sat at the very edge of the indicated chair and leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Madame Danier’s face. Her hearing was only peripherally impaired but she was training herself to read lips, a prudent measure, she told herself, which hopefully would never be necessary.

  “I have the records of your coursework and examinations here, and I congratulate you on your excellent performance.” Madame Danier beamed with pride at her outstanding student.

  Madeleine blushed.

  “I worked and studied very hard, madame,” she replied modestly.

  “I also note that today is your birthday.”

  “Yes. My twentieth.”

  Madeleine relaxed and fingered the crimson woolen neckerchief that had rested beside her breakfast setting that morning. It was, of course, her grandmother’s handiwork. Madeleine had been pleased but not surprised. Lucie Dreyfus never forgot a birthday.

  “It is coincidental that you should receive this today. Consider it a well earned, very special birthday surprise,” Madame Danier said.

  She held out a thick white envelope, which Madeleine grasped, her hands trembling as she opened it very carefully and withdrew an embossed document. Her eyes filled as she read it.

  “My certification!” she exclaimed. “I did not expect to receive it so soon.”

  “Indeed, you passed all your examinations and completed your coursework in record time. You now have the title of assistante sociale, a qualified social worker.”

  Madame Danier reached across her desk and took Madeleine’s hand in her own.

  “I am not surprised. I knew you would succeed from the moment you began your studies. You and your sister, Simone, are among our most diligent and accomplished students.”

  The dean spoke with quiet restraint. She was not a woman who lavished compliments easily, but she had observed the Levy sisters with great admiration. Madeleine was always willing, and Simone had managed demanding assignments despite her husband’s dangerous illness and the needs of her small daughter.

  “It has been our privilege to study here, especially during times such as these,” Madeleine replied quietly.

  “Yes. Your training will be important if events continue on this sad trajectory.”

  They sat for a few moments in silence. There was no need for additional words. Grim news had haunted them week after week, month after month, as Adolf Hitler’s vicious actions accelerated, filling the world with fear and trembling. France had felt the impact of the Nazi regime as scores of terrified German Jews fled across the border, seeking refuge from the torrent of abuse and hatred in their native land. Conventional resources were overwhelmed, but social programs were swiftly organized by the Institute of Social Work and the French Jewish community.

  Madeleine’s father and her brother Jean Louis, himself a medical student, ran a free clinic in the Marais where they treated malnutrition, rickets, the scars of vicious beatings, and limbs distorted by badly treated fractures.

  “We do not ask what caused the scars, the fractures,” Dr. Levy had said wearily. He no longer spoke of Germany as the home of Beethoven and Schiller.

  Madeleine and Simone had scavenged hours to assist their mother and grandmother in the distribution of food and clothing.
/>   “How is Simone managing?” the dean asked hesitantly. “We have heard of her husband’s illness.”

  “Yes, Anatol has meningitis, but my sister is very strong,” Madeleine replied. “She is a wonderful mother and we do our best to help her. My mother, my grandmother, myself.”

  Madame Danier nodded.

  “Of course. It is known that the women of the Dreyfus family are strong. Strong and brave.”

  “Thank you for those words,” Madeleine said.

  She committed them to memory. She would repeat them to Simone and perhaps to her mother and grandmother. Such encouragement was reassuring during this sad time of watching and waiting as Anatol hovered between life and death. She sighed and wished fervently that she could believe in her own strength, her own courage.

  Madame Danier leaned toward her, speaking with an odd hesitancy.

  “Mademoiselle Levy, I have a special assignment for you. An emergency has arisen that requires an immediate home visit. A teacher in the Pletzl has reported that a newly arrived Jewish family from Germany is in urgent need. There are three children so severely malnourished that she fears for their very survival. We want to offer them assistance from the special fund established by the Jewish community, but we cannot do so unless an accredited social worker gives an assessment of this situation. No one but yourself is available. Could you do that today?”

  “Of course,” Madeleine replied immediately. “After all, I am now an assistante sociale. This will be my first case.” She smiled proudly.

  “Then I must wish you bonne chance,” the dean said as she handed Madeleine the flimsy folder that contained the family’s details and an evaluation form.

  “And happy birthday,” she added, but Madeleine, hurrying out, her head averted, did not turn to thank her for her good wishes.

  Too late, Madame Danier remembered that her newly qualified student had a slight hearing deficit. She shrugged. No matter. Such an impairment would not hamper Madeleine Levy, vested as she was with determination and compassion.

  * * *

  Madeleine traveled to the Pletzl on a crowded Metro car, the scent of newly baked baguettes reminding her that she was hungry, very hungry. She clutched her briefcase, regretting that she had not thought to tuck a croissant among her papers and vouchers. She had not had time for lunch and doubted that she would be home for dinner, given that an important meeting of the scouts was scheduled at that hour. Emerging from the Metro, she was relieved to see that a buxom elderly woman, wearing a grease-stained white apron over her heavy, dark winter coat, stood beside a brazier on the rue des Rosiers, shouting out the virtue of the crepes she offered for sale.

  “Crêpes, délicieuses. Fraises du bois. Pommes. Fromage! Crepes, delicious. Strawberry. Apple. Cheese!” she shouted as she warmed her large hands over the glowing coals.

  Madeleine hurried over, pointed to a strawberry crepe, and handed the vendor a franc note.

  The plump woman smiled and scooped the crepe into a cone fashioned from a creased sheet of newspaper, adding a generous sprinkling of powdered sugar.

  A small girl, her fair hair matted, her painfully thin arms sticking out of the sleeves of her much-mended plaid coat, wearing boys’ boots and thick, mud-spattered stockings, sidled up to the cart and stared wistfully at the array of crepes. Her lips were dry, and hunger was in her eyes.

  “Would you sell me half a crepe for three centimes?” she asked shyly.

  The vendor averted her eyes, but Madeleine pulled another franc note from her purse.

  “Do you want strawberry or blueberry?” she asked the child.

  “Blueberry.” The answer came in a whisper, but the small girl smiled as she bit into the sweet delicacy.

  “Danke, Fraulein,” she murmured and then quickly corrected herself. “Merci, mademoiselle,” she said in a stronger voice.

  “Bon appétit,” Madeleine said. “But perhaps you can now assist me. I am looking for rue Lascin.”

  “But that is my own street,” the child replied. “I live on the rue Lascin. I will take you there.”

  Madeleine walked beside her, both of them munching the last of their crepes. They made their way through a maze of hovels into a narrow alley cluttered with overflowing dustbins. Ragged children darted in and out of the debris in urgent play, shouting in French and German, Yiddish and Polish.

  “This is rue Lascin,” the child announced importantly. “You must tell me the number you want.”

  Madeleine glanced at the information sheet.

  “Dix. Number ten.”

  “But that is where I live. Number ten,” the child said.

  “Do you know the Hofberg family?”

  The small girl thrust her small shoulders back, and for the first time, she smiled.

  “I am Anna Hofberg,” she said proudly and led Madeleine into the dark, fetid vestibule of the tenement.

  Slowly, they climbed the narrow stairwell. Large-eyed children clustered on each landing. The mingled odors of carbolic acid and overcooked cabbage drifted from open doorways. The banisters were draped with damp underclothing, singlets and shirts worn to a thinness, trousers and faded dresses patched and darned.

  “We live at the very top,” Anna said apologetically. “My mother says that is good because we do not hear other families walking overhead. We are not used to that. In Berlin we had our own house. A big house. I had my own room. And so did my brothers. The quilt on my bed was pink, and the curtains on my window were the same color. My mother had a sewing room and my father had a study. I miss my quilt, my curtains. It was a beautiful house.”

  Her voice quavered, and Madeleine feared that she might cry. Impulsively, she took the child’s hand.

  “I’m sure it was, Anna. But your parents were wise to leave it. A house is just a house. Your safety is more important than any house. And Germany is not safe for our people. Not now. Perhaps not ever.”

  “But how do we know that we will be safe here in Paris? How do we know that we will be safe anywhere ever?” Anna asked plaintively.

  Madeleine was silent. It was the same question Pierre Dreyfus had asked the previous evening when he had revealed his determination to take his family to America.

  “How do we know that we will be safe in Paris? Or anywhere in Europe? I am certain that war will come, and I must seek safety for my children.” His voice had been weighted with misery, and his words of warning were etched into Madeleine’s memory.

  She understood, standing in the stairwell of the decrepit tenement, that this waif shared her uncle’s premonition, his desperate fear. How could little Anna be assured of her safety in Paris or, indeed, anywhere in a Europe threatened by Nazi power? She touched Anna’s shoulder lightly and forced herself to smile as she struggled to find words of reassurance.

  “France is not Germany. The French are good people. We believe in love, not hatred. You will be safe here, Anna. We will keep you safe,” she said. “I promise.”

  A foolish promise, she knew, but one she would try to keep.

  They reached the top floor. A thin, fair-haired woman stood in an open doorway, tapping her foot impatiently, her lips clenched, fear in her eyes.

  “Anna, where have you been? I was so worried.”

  She spoke in German, harshness and concern blended in her tone, but seeing Madeleine, she addressed her in the stilted and rudimentary French of a new arrival.

  “You must forgive me, mademoiselle. I was concerned about my daughter,” she said apologetically.

  “I understand. Anna was kind enough to accompany me when I told her that I had been sent to visit the family Hofberg,” Madeleine said, careful to speak softly, calmly.

  “You are certain that it is the family Hofberg you are seeking?” Anna’s mother asked.

  Her question was hesitant, laced with fear. Madeleine understood that visitors were alien to h
er in this new land. Alien and threatening.

  “Yes. I am certain. May I come in so that I can explain why I am here?”

  “She is a nice lady. So kind,” Anna whispered.

  Her mother hesitated, then nodded, and Madeleine followed her into the apartment. The bare floor was scrubbed clean, and bare mattresses were thrust against the peeling wall. The curtainless windows sparkled. A table had been improvised from a plank of wood and cinder blocks, but a graceful crystal vase, containing a single yellow rose, stood on its splintered surface. Small Anna perched on a battered sofa, cotton stuffing pouring out of its faded floral-patterned cushions.

  “Frau Hofberg, allow me to introduce myself,” Madeleine began. “My name is Madeleine Levy and I am a social worker, an assistante sociale.”

  She spoke her new title with subdued pride and paused before continuing.

  “A teacher in your son’s school contacted the Institute of Social Work. Your son told her that he was hungry and felt weak because he had not eaten, that there was no food in his home. The teacher feared for his health and turned to us. We want to offer you assistance from a fund made available to us by the Jewish community of Paris. The kehillah.”

  Frau Hofberg nodded in recognition of the Hebrew word for community, but her voice trembled when she replied, speaking with an odd comingling of pride and embarrassment.

  “I thank you but we do not need charity. A kind neighbor has lent us money for bread and milk. We will, of course, repay her when my husband finds employment. He knows business. Upholstery. There is no illness in our home. I keep everything clean, very clean.”

  The words poured out in a jumble of German and French. Frau Hofberg’s eyes were very bright, her color high. Anna gripped her mother’s hand, and two boys ran in and stood protectively beside her. Their pallor and the wariness in their eyes saddened Madeleine.

  “These are my brothers,” Anna said. “Samuel and David.”

  Madeleine held her hand out to them, and as they each touched it, she felt the fragility of their fingers, the bones shining through the thin covering of skin. Malnourished, the teacher had reported. Starving, Madeleine would amend when she wrote her report.